


Suite Gothique, Op. 25: IV. Toccata

by AconiteArt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, F/F, Flash Fic, Folklore, Hurt No Comfort, Inspired by Music, Tragic Romance, folktale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconiteArt/pseuds/AconiteArt
Summary: Long ago, there lived an organistlong ago, there lived a choir girllong ago, there lived a grand organ that touched the sky





	Suite Gothique, Op. 25: IV. Toccata

**Author's Note:**

> So, I watched Sideways video "Why pipe organs sound scary", and this idea struck me and wouldn't let go until I wrote it down

Long, long ago, there lived an organist by the name of Toccata. The daughter of a wealthy pastor, she dedicated her life to the church and her instrument. She could make the pipes sing like no other, pulling stops and pressing keys as though they were a part of her. When the queen began work on a new cathedral, one with the largest organ ever built, Toccata knew that it was where she was meant to be. The queen put out a call for the greatest organist in the land. Toccata left her home and her family to perform for the chance of playing the grand machine. Every organist in the country sought out the queen’s grace. Toccata poured her life into her limbs and made the pipes sing her story. The queen was enraptured by her performance and allowed her to become the maestro of her new cathedral. The pipes stood as tall as the mountains around them, speaking loud enough to be heard across the land.  
In this new position, Toccata herself was a frightening enigma for the local townsfolk, the dark-haired woman who never spoke or smiled and could make the ground shake with her music. Still, there was one who didn’t fear her: Coloratura, a member of the choir. She was the church’s star soprano, with a voice so high and clear it could bring men to their knees. These masters of their craft grew close, the strength of their music unmatched. Toccata worshipped her sweet melodies, and Coloratura worshipped her power. Eventually, the pair fell for each other entirely. They’d meet in secret, hidden from the disdainful eyes of the church. Women weren’t to be together, especially not on holy ground. Still, their romance bloomed. Toccata would smile, for she had her angel, her muse, her beloved Coloratura.  
One day, Coloratura didn’t come to church. She wasn’t there the next service, nor the one after that. Toccata searched for her, where could her angel have gone? She then learned that Coloratura had fallen ill and passed away. That couldn’t be, Toccata thought. She was an angel sent to Earth, no mortal sickness could have taken her. But alas, it was so. Her light, her beautiful sweet Coloratura was no more.  
Mad with grief, the maestro prepared for one last performance. When the next service came, she was ready to make it her most memorable. She played and played, breaking from the hymns to let her sorrow and rage ring out for the nation to hear. The earth rumbled from the volume. The bellow pumpers tried to stop her, but she threw them aside and blew the wind herself, her grief ripping the air into a wild frenzy through the pipes. Stops and keys and pedals moved faster and faster, caught in her mania. The churchgoers couldn’t move, cowering before the wall of sound that could only be the voice of God, enraptured even as their eardrums bled. The stained glass shattered under the onslaught, blown out by her pain. The very walls of the cathedral began to move. The maestro noticed none of it, pouring her very soul into her art. All the stops were pulled as the music reached a fever pitch. With the grand crescendo of climax, the ceiling gave out, burying everyone inside in an avalanche of heartache and stone. The last notes rang out, until finally they were swallowed in silence.  
The ruins of that cathedral still stand, the grand organ laying hidden in the waste. Some say those pipes still sing late at night, calling out for their lost love. Those that enter those sacred broken halls swear they can feel the wind being pulled into the organ, waiting for its muse.


End file.
